


The Saturnalia Invitation

by queanofswords



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Gen, Holidays, who_reversebang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queanofswords/pseuds/queanofswords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ponds are getting ready for the holidays, but something is missing. Rory quickly comes up with a plan to save Christmas and get the family together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Saturnalia Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [who_reversebang](http://who-reversebang.livejournal.com/). Link to the art over [here](http://who-reversebang.livejournal.com/5133.html)!

It wasn't snowing in Leadworth. In fact, it hadn't snowed at all in December, despite an unseasonable storm back in November. Amy was hanging up Christmas cards. They'd got quite a few more than either of them could have expected, mostly due to Amy's recent modelling job. Rory had to admit that it was nice to have the extra money, though people stopping them in the street for his wife's autograph was going to take some getting used to.

Most of the cards were from complete strangers (or distant relatives who were suddenly aware of their existence). Amy had taken the prettiest ones—and the ones from people they actually knew—to hang on fishing line in a diagonals across the living room ceiling.

It was their first Christmas in the house the Doctor had given them, and their first as a married couple. (On Earth, anyway.) So far, it had been fun decorating their TARDIS-blue front door with a wreath and hanging lights in the windows, and buying a tree... and not decorating it. They weren't allowed to do that yet, for some reason that Rory couldn't fathom and Amy refused to explain. He'd bought enough decorations for twelve trees—at least, it seemed like that many. It would have justified the credit card bill.

But the tree sat alone in the corner of their living room, green and smelling of sap and German forests. He could remember when people in England had first started having Christmas trees, after Queen Victoria had married Prince Albert.

In a way, Rory like having it there without the lights and gaudy baubles. But as Christmas Eve came closer and Amy didn't touch the tree, or even look at the ornaments he'd bought, he started to wonder if there wasn't something else going on. To his mind, it wasn't a proper Christmas without a tree. It'd be like missing out on the turkey or pudding.

Amy stepped down from the chair she'd been standing on and gave the brightly coloured card banner a critical eye.

"What d'you think?" she asked.

"It's nice," Rory replied. When she turned a dissatisfied glare on him, he amended, "I meant festive. Beautiful. Superb?"

Amy's frown lifted and she laughed at him. "Good."

He put down his book and stood just enough to reach her hand and pull her towards him.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Come and sit," he said, putting his other arm around her waist and manoeuvring her to sit in his lap. "Tell me what you want for Christmas."

Amy rolled her eyes. "Get off, you."

"No." He kissed her cheek and they fell back onto the sofa. Amy put her arms behind his head and leaned into him. Rory had hopes of a nice, relaxed snog in front of the wide-screen HD fake fire, but Amy's kisses were perfunctory and dutiful.

Rory had known Amy since her family (or her and Aunt Sharon) had moved to Leadworth. He didn't always understand what was going on inside her head ('stupid face' came to mind) but he had a pretty good handle on her moods. Sort of.

Of course, you couldn't just ask Amy what the matter was. Lately, she'd just lie and say that everything was fine.

One of their mobile phones was beeping. Amy practically jumped out of his lap and dashed into the kitchen. After a moment's bewildered staring into space, he followed after her.

He met her in the doorway. She thrust his phone into his chest. "It's the hospital."

Rory read the text message. "Looks like they need me to take an extra shift tonight."

Amy nodded without looking at him. "Fine." Then, she back-tracked. "No, actually, it's not fine. Can't you beg off?"

He hesitated, glancing down at the message. He had had a hard enough time getting his job back. She must have known what he was thinking, because she changed her mind again.

"Never mind. You go. Help people, save lives." She kissed him lightly and left him to get ready.

Once he was at the hospital, the very _last_ thing on his mind was Christmas, or even Amy. A bus full of school children had got into an accident due to an icy patch on one of the narrow village roads. Luckily, most of the injuries weren't severe; just bumps and bruises, but he and the other nurses were up to their necks in eight- and nine-year-olds. Some were frightened, some excited, and all of them trying to evade the watchful eyes of their shaken teacher and the hospital staff.

It was six hours later when he finally got to take a break. He checked his phone for messages and saw a text from Amy that read: "bring home wine and crisps." He sighed and put the phone back in his pocket.

Amanda, another nurse, spotted him as she passed the break room and doubled back to poke her head in. "All right there, Rory?"

"Yeah, fine," he said.

Amanda was a plump woman with a kind smile and cheerful demeanour. She was well into her fifties and had a wealth of stories and advice about nursing, marriage and children that she was happy to share with anyone and everyone who would listen. Rory had always been a good listener, so Amanda was fond of him. She treated him like a son, really. It was nice, though sometimes it was a bit mortifying. It made those times when he was being told off a little too much like having your mother dress you down in front off the whole playground and then try to clean a smudge off of your cheek with a spit-moistened hanky. It was times like that when he clearly remembered being a Roman soldier, facing bearded barbarian hordes and wondered what his general would have thought.

"I know that look," Amanda said, fixing a motherly eye on him. "Everything all right at home? You and Amy have a row?"

"No. We're fine," he said. "Just the holidays, you know. Stress."

Amanda nodded, but there was an expression of disbelief on her face. "If you ask me, you should keep it simple. All you really need is your family around you."

He nodded. "Right. Simple."

She smiled and left him alone again.

That was when he realised what was bothering Amy. It should have been obvious—it was Melody. River. The Doctor. Maybe he'd thought she was just restless being back on Earth. After all, the last time River had come to see them, everything had been... Well, not _normal_.

Rory was coming to terms with the fact that nothing in his life was ever going to be normal. But it had been almost comfortable. River was different than Mels. Maybe it was the more mature body having some kind of calming influence, though it wasn't hard to see that same glint in her eyes. Both of them seemed to live on adrenaline, both of them laughed at things that normal people would never admit to finding funny. River remembered everything about Mels' life in Leadworth, down to the most embarrassing details.

But there was a disconnect: he couldn't help but think of them as different people. There was Melody, their baby; there was Mels, their best friend and poster-child for Leadworth's Troubled Youth; and then there was River, a brazenly confident woman who had killed and married the Doctor. It probably made him the worst parent in the history of the universe, but Rory found it very hard to remember that they were technically the same person. Maybe he just wasn't used to the idea yet.

Though to be perfectly honest, he had trouble remembering that he was, very technically, a _parent_. Even though he'd pretty much always wanted to be one. How were you supposed to be a dad when your daughter was older than you were?

Of course, there was the Doctor. Rory was pretty sure he'd come to grips with that whole thing. Sort of. The Doctor had married River. In an alternate timeline. If that still counted. Then again, in another timeline, _he'd_ been a Roman. Most people didn't know that—his own mother didn't know that—but it didn't make it any less real, because he remembered it all. It was still very distracting.

He took out his mobile, dialled, and listened to it ring until the answer machine finally picked up.

"I've seen you answer the phone, Doctor," he said. "I'm starting to suspect that you're screening your calls." He sighed. "Look, it's not an emergency, or anything, but I think it'd be nice if you could drop by. Just for a visit..." He paused. He hated leaving messages. Even the clearest thought always got jumbled when he was required to explain himself to a machine. "If you do get this, just call me back. Good-bye. It's Rory, by the way."

He sat in the quiet, empty room and thought about it all until the end of his break. By the time it was time for him to get back to work, he had formulated his strategy.

§

It was called the Saturnalia Invitation: a message carved in Latin on a bit of granite slab, that had been found in a field some time in the thirty-eighth century. When it was found, it was hoped that it would be a great discovery from the time of the Roman conquest, it was quickly determined—through the use of very sophisticated dating technology—to be some sort of clever fraud. Some twentieth century university student having a laugh at the expense of archaeological posterity.

When doctoral candidate River Song came across it in her readings, she immediately found in interesting. Partly because she had a fondness for practical jokes, but mostly because of where it had been found—western England—and what it said.

Her Latin was excellent, of course. Far beyond conjugation and grammar, she also knew quite a lot of the most wonderfully filthy language. Of course, in her opinion, Latin wasn't the best language for swearing. It's daughter, Italian, was much more satisfying.

The words on the slab translated (roughly) to this:

 _Your mother and I are expecting you for the holidays this year, after you come back from Byzantium. Please bring your husband and wine. Love, Dad._

As far as jokes went, it was certainly an odd one. But River knew a letter when she saw one, and most people did not take the time to carve them into large igneous rocks. It was just the sort of thing she would have done. There was only one person in the universe who could have written it.

She copied all the information about the slab into her diary, (including the best guesses as to when it had been buried) and transcribed the message. In the original Latin, of course. It never occurred to her that she might be mistaken in the idea that it was meant for her, or that it had any significance at all. If there was one thing she was certain of, it was that in many small ways and a few very big ones, the universe revolved around her.

It was years before she thought about it again. Not until she appeared in her mother's garden and found Amy much as she'd last seen her—quiet and wrapped in a blanket. There was wine on the table. She smiled a little bit wider, thinking ahead to her next little venture before moving onto more important things. She couldn't let her parents go on thinking that the Doctor was really dead, could she?

Rory, her father, was just as pleased by the news of the Doctor's survival as Amy was, but he had other questions for her.

"So, that's three different time-lines now," he said, looking up from his wine glass. "And only we remember them?" River smiled, but her father still looked worried. "Are there more? I mean... I know it's time travel, but I don't think there's much more room inside my head."

Amy finished her third glass of wine. Less than a year ago, she'd given birth to her first child. Now she was mother-in-law to her best friend. Lesser women would have needed tranquillisers and a strait-jacket, but Amy Pond was anything but lesser, River thought with no small measure of pride and affection.

Still pulling a face, Amy said, "I'll keep this one for now."

"What do we tell our parents?" Rory wondered. "I mean, I haven't even been able to decide whether or not to tell them that they're _grandparents_ , let alone that their granddaughter's _married_."

River gave him a sad smile. She could imagine what he was thinking—what both he and Amy were thinking. They were imagining all those moments missed.

"I got quite a lot of attention from all your parents when I was Mels," she said. Oh, the times that Augustus Pond had tried to pontificate on the virtues of good behaviour, or Tabitha had plied her with tea and biscuits and lamented over the latest "escapade," as she always called them.

"You're still Mels," Amy said, frowning in that way she always did when she was getting drunk and something troubled her. She gave the wine bottle a lingering look and then poured herself another glass.

"We could introduce you as..." Rory faltered.

It was still new to them, River reminded herself. But they'd learn, and they'd integrate all the madness into their lives. They'd managed well enough until now.

§

The Doctor was running from a horde of angry Hrrdu—big gorilla-alligator people with a fondness for chewing on bones and epic poetry.

It had all been going so well, until the chieftain's daughter had decided to run off with the son of a neighbouring enemy. Then suddenly it was all spears and thinly veiled curiosity about which seasoning would complement the sweetmeats inside the man who had introduced the princess to her new beau.

Since Hrrdu didn't respond to diplomacy—they probably thought it was some kind of flower—the Doctor had little choice but to run.

He was (pleasantly) surprised to meet River in the woods on the way back to the TARDIS. She was wearing a white jacket over a very nice light blue dress.

River only had two modes of dress, as far as he could tell: adventure-appropriate and formal wear. (One of the things he liked about her.) As ever, she had her blaster. (One of the things he liked about her that he really shouldn't have.) But at the moment, it was as welcome a sight as she was.

She had one hand on her hip, the other was tapping the blaster against her leg, giving the impression that she'd been waiting for some time and she was growing impatient with him.

"River!" he cried, coming to a skidding halt in front of her. "Good to see you! Bit of a situation, I'm afraid. Join me in a brisk jog?"

"No, thank you. I'm here for the feast."

He frowned. "What feast?"

"It's the first night of Gorg," she said. "The very first Gorg, if I'm not mistaken."

"Gorg?" He glanced over his shoulder. He was losing his head start. Very not good. He was still half a kilometre from the TARDIS.

"The Hrrdu's favourite holiday." She smiled at him, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I believe the traditional main course is Gallifreyan _au gratin_. Of course, every Gorg after this one, they'll have to make do with imitation Gallifreyan, which I have on good authority is not nearly as delicious." The glint became a full-on gleam that made his hands try to flail in a vague sort of panic.

Regaining control of his extremities, the Doctor huffed. "River, that is not funny, nor is it remotely helpful." He glanced over his shoulder. "I'm going back to the TARDIS."

"No, you're not!" she cried after him as he started to run again. "The TARDIS is twenty kilometres away by now!"

He stopped and spun around. "What? What happened?!" Maybe he ought to rethink the direction of the running, then.

"The chieftain of the other tribe took it back to his compound. The beginning of another interesting tradition—every little Hrrdu will wake on Gorg Morning and find blue boxes full of shiny new weapons. Assuming they've been good little maimers, of course."

"Sounds like your kind of holiday," the Doctor said, glaring at her. It wasn't fair of her to find this so _amusing_.

She smiled and raised an eyebrow. "I asked Poxor for a new falchion this year."

"Well, let's go to Rogg's compound then," the Doctor said. He pointed at her wrist-strap. "I see you've brought transport."

She rolled her eyes in pretend annoyance. "Always your designated driver."

He edged a bit closer, until his face was inches from hers. "That sounds like a spoiler," he said.

This time the annoyance wasn't quite so feigned. "Oh, shut up."

Escape from Rogg's compound would have been easy, except the Doctor didn't feel right about leaving before doing what he could to help Arg and her intended. He managed to convince Toh that he could engage in personal combat with Arg's father. _Without_ killing him. (So started the Hrrdu tradition of the groom challenging the father of the bride to combat for her hand. It was the only way to earn a father's respect and prove that you were a mighty enough warrior to be worthy of his darling daughter.)

The Doctor and River were away in the TARDIS before the wedding feast had concluded. They declined to eat—the Doctor was reasonably sure that Sontaran would disagree with him.

"Never eat anything sentient," he told River as he unlocked the TARDIS door.

"Humanity's been breaking that rule since the dawn of time," she scoffed as she closed the door behind them and watched him dance his way up the stairs. "You of all people should know that."

He turned and gave her a scolding look. "If humanity jumped out of an airlock, would you...?" He trailed off at the smirk on her face and then he shook his head and grumbled, "I'm forgetting who I'm talking to."

River started the dematerialisation sequence.

"What have I said about piloting my TARDIS without asking?" he cried.

"It's an emergency," she said, throwing the 'go' lever.

"Where? What's happening?" He sighed and threw the lever back. The engines made a groan of protest. "I should have known. What is it this time? Supernovas? Elvis's come back and he's very cross? You never just want to have a _chat_."

River raised that Bad Girl eyebrow and put her hand back on the lever. "You love it."

He smiled a bit despite himself, but before he could throw back any sort of witty or sexy rejoinder, the TARDIS bucked to one side, leaving him scrambling for a hand hold. He tumbled back, landing (fortuitously) in the captain's chair.

"All right, then," River said, parking them deftly in the Time Vortex. "When are we?" She pulled her diary from her white jacket and started flipping through pages. "Have we done the Byzantium yet?"

"Ages ago," he said, pulling his own diary from his pocket. "Have you been to the Rotating Gardens of Beva, yet?"

"No. Sounds nauseating." She smiled. "Caravan of the Lotus Eaters?"

"Last week," he said, avoiding her eyes. The experience had been... enlightening.

"Perfect," River purred. She flipped back a few pages and started putting in co-ordinates, and the TARDIS just _let her_ , like she was the pilot instead of him, and oh, blast, he was getting jealous again.

"River!" he cried. "Tell me where we're going!" He jumped from the chair and almost fell face-first into the controls. He managed to catch himself and avoid having the letters 'C' 'V' 'B' and 'N' embedded into his forehead. The TARDIS was moving back and forth like an old sailing ship caught in a hurricane. "I thought you knew how to fly her!"

"I do!" she shouted back. "Have you been _tinkering_ again?" She gave him a disdainful look through the glass of the rotor. "Stop fixing what isn't broken!"

The TARDIS shuddered and came to a grinding halt. The Doctor stood upright and fixed his bow tie. "It's not fixing, it's _improving_."

River sighed in exasperation. "Well, we made it in one piece, at least." She threw the hand brake. "Wait here while I pop down to the wine cellar."

The Doctor's curiosity was piqued. "Why do we need wine? What are you planning? Where are we?" He paused for a beat. "What wine cellar?" She didn't answer him before disappearing up the steps. He went to the monitor and checked to see where River had taken them.

Suddenly grinning, he dashed off to the wardrobe. He was going to need a hat.

§

"Good morning," Rory said, kissing her temple.

Amy pulled the covers over her head and groaned, "Let me sleeeeeep."

"It's half-past ten."

"And I've got a hangover." Dad had brought out the good Scotch last night, in order to toast his daughter and son-in-law. Most of the rest of the evening after that was a blur. Normally, Amy didn't like to get drunk—not _very_ drunk, anyway.

And it wasn't as if she was doing it all the time. A couple of bottles of wine over the course of a week wasn't exactly excessive. But Rory kept getting that _look_ on his stupid face. He was _concerned_.

Mum, who didn't approve of drinking at all, aside from on holidays, had literally had trouble holding her Scotch, sloshing it without noticing. She'd kept asking where their friend Melody was. "She always comes by on Christmas Eve," she'd said, her frown matching the one Amy saw in the mirror.

"She couldn't make it," Rory had said.

Mum had sighed. "Oh dear. She's not in prison again, is she?"

That was when Amy had joined her tiny, wee, red-faced Dad in another generous belt of McCrimmon & Bell.

"That's Christmas tradition, isn't it?" Rory said, breaking through her muddled thoughts and making her eyes pulse against her eyelids. "Getting out of bed _before_ noon?"

She covered her ears. "Not when you've got a hangover," she muttered.

"Come on, Amy. We've got stuff to do."

Amy grumbled and wound herself up tighter in the blankets. She felt the bed move as Rory sighed and got up, and heard the door close softly (deafeningly) behind him.

When she was asleep again, she dreamt that she was in her old bedroom. The bed was warm and cosy and her head didn't ache. She lay there, content, and watched snow accrue in the corners of the windowpanes.

There were whispers coming from the wall. She looked at the dressing table with its mirror and all the photographs and old drawings of blue police boxes. There, peeking out around the edges of the mirror, was a crack in the paint. The voices were harsh and she couldn't understand what they were saying.

She got out of bed and tried to push the dressing table away from the wall, but she wasn't strong enough. The mirror was stuck to the wall. She caught her reflection. Her face was wrong—too old. Angry. Tired.

Something moved behind her, just out of the corner of her eye. When she turned, it was gone. Rory came into the room, wearing his navy blue puffer vest and carrying a bundle in his arms. "Amy, I found her!"

"Melody!" Amy hurried to them and pulled the blanket away from her baby's face.

The baby blinked back at her, its purple skin shining like it was covered in glitter or starlight. _It's a star whale_ , said a reasonable voice in her head. But it was her baby.

No, it wasn't her. "Please," she begged, looking at Rory. She was holding the baby now; it gurgled happily as she held it to her breast. "Where's my baby?"

"What are you talking about?" Rory asked. "You're holding her."

Amy looked again. It _was_ Melody. How had she not recognised her own child?

Melody started to fuss and Amy clutched her tightly, sobbing and thanking him over and over again.

The Doctor put a hand on her shoulder. "You should have tried harder," he said.

"What are you talking about?" she wondered. Melody grew heavy in her arms. The next time Amy looked at her, she was a little girl with golden hair and pigtails. "They took her because of _you_."

River was there, standing behind him, raising a copper-bottomed saucepan. Amy opened her mouth to warn the Doctor, but River swung the pan and hit him across the back of the head. It clattered, and the Doctor's body fell to the floor with a crash of breaking china.

Amy opened her eyes. She'd wrapped her arms around a pillow, but now she was awake. She wondered, vague with the last of the dream clinging to her, if it would be possible to go back in time and find some way to re-populate the star whales, and also, if maybe the crack in her bedroom hadn't closed. Maybe it had only moved. Maybe that was why her life was such a jumbled up mess. Maybe those psychiatrists had been right and all of it was really just inside her crack-addled mind.

The pillow in her arms was no substitute for a baby. She looked at it, decided that the crack hadn't moved to her head but to her heart, and threw the pillow and the thoughts across the room with a ferocious sound that was not a sob because she was sick of crying. She wasn't going to think about how _real_ Melody had felt in her arms, or how she could almost smell that sweet, milky baby-scent. She wasn't going to because it didn't _matter_. She had a life to be getting on with.

There was another crash and Amy realised that there were voices coming from downstairs. Springing from the bed, the first thing she did was pull on the pyjama bottoms she'd abandoned yesterday—or the day before.

Rory kept his Roman sword under his half of the mattress. She'd discovered it while making the bed a few weeks ago. She took it, pulling it from the scabbard with a silky, steely whisper. She left the scabbard strewn across the bed and headed for the stairwell.

She caught Rory in the kitchen, alone, his shirt covered in flour. He stared at her, standing in her loose plaid pyjamas, her hair probably all over the place, and a sword in her hands. For a second he looked startled, almost afraid, but then she saw the switch go off in his eyes, and he had that half-drugged look he got when he was turned on.

Rolling her eyes, Amy lowered the sword. "Who else is here?"

"Nobody," he said. Then he blinked and shook himself. "I mean, it's just me. I was cooking. I dropped some plates... Sorry..."

Amy glanced at the bin. The broom was leaning against the wall next to it. "I heard voices," she said.

"It's was the neighbour's," he said. "Their cat's run off, and they wanted to ask us to keep an eye out." He picked a small, green and red gift-wrapped box from the other side of the counter. "They also gave us this. I thought you might like to open it."

She took it. "We didn't get them anything."

"I gave them some of your mum's fruit cake."

"That wasn't very nice," she said.

"I like your mum's fruitcake."

Amy smiled a little. "That's why she let me marry you." She put the sword down on the counter with a clatter and left the gift next to it. "What are you making, then?"

"Erm... I'm not sure." Rory looked guiltily at the mess on the counter and the pile of dishes in the sink. "But I'll clean it up."

She rubbed her eyes. "I'm going to take a shower."

"Don't you want to open presents first?" Rory's face was a picture of disappointment.

"I'm all gross," she said, making a face. "And I probably smell."

"Only a little," he said. His eyes widened. "But it's... good. It's a good smell."

She laughed at him and leaned over to kiss him. "How about you clean up, and I bathe and brush my teeth. Then we can do presents."

Rory nodded. He was giving her that _look_ again. She smiled at him so he'd stop, and he did.

§

The sheer number of items under their undecorated tree was embarrassing. Rory felt a pang of guilt when he saw it—most of the items said "To: Rory. From: Amy" on them. (Amy liked having the extra money and she had no qualms about spending it.) She seemed to like what he'd bought her, though.

It was nice, opening gifts over expensive drinking chocolate. Amy's mood was brighter than it had been in over a week. Rory suggested that they take a walk, just to enjoy the snow that had glazed the street overnight.

When they got back, Rory started cleaning up the bits of wrapping paper in the living room. Amy had picked a card down from the banner hanging across the room—a fancy peacock bearing the message, "Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from everyone at Smith & Jones"—and she sniffed the air.

"Do you smell something burning?"

Rory was confused. "No." Then, he did smell it. "Yes."

They hurried to the kitchen.

Amy opened the oven and a plume of smoke came out. Which set off the smoke alarm.

"Yes, we know," Rory grumbled.

"Turn that off!" Amy cried. She grabbed the mitts and pulled out what appeared to be a massive turkey, complete with trimmings—blackened and still on fire. Rory grabbed the fire extinguisher from its hiding spot under the sink and tossed it over to her.

Amy covered the fiery bird with chemical flame retardants and then lifted it out of the oven and onto the counter, knocking several canisters of spice over in the process and filling the room with a thick cloud of cinnamon.

As they coughed and choked, Rory managed to get the smoke alarm off of the wall. The stupid thing kept screeching even after he took the battery out.

From there, it was a battle from which only one could walk away. The twenty-quid smoke alarm died a violent death, viciously beaten with a rolling pin that Rory did not remember getting out of the cupboards that morning.

When the cinnamon cloud had settled and the alarm had beeped its last—and the turkey was definitely no longer on fire—Mrs. Williams set her eyes on Mr. Pond and Mr. Pond wilted.

"It wasn't me," he said.

There was a quiet clearing of the throat in the doorway and both of them turned.

The Doctor waved almost shyly. He was wearing a bright red Santa Claus hat and he had gone so far as to put a sprig of holly in his lapel.

"Merry Christmas," he said, eying Amy with a fair amount of nervous trepidation.

Amy looked at him, looked at the turkey, then Rory, and said, "Did you know about this?"

"Know?" he repeated. "Not exactly..."

" _You_ made this?" Amy accused, glaring at the Doctor.

"That was the intention." The Doctor eyed the mess. "There seems to be a problem with your oven."

"Where do you expect me to put these?" called a familiar voice. River was coming in through the door from the garden, carrying three bags of what looked like, but could not possibly have been, _shopping_. She paused when she saw them all standing there. "So much for the surprise."

Rory took two of the bags from her arms. There wasn't a lot of room on the counter. He helped her set them on the floor instead.

"What is going on?" Amy demanded.

The Doctor grinned like a five-year-old on... well... Christmas morning. "Today is December the twenty-fifth!" he proclaimed. "The day traditionally associated with Christmas, though for a period during the reign of the first Great and Bountiful Human Empire, it will actually be celebrated on the third of June..." He gave a little wince. "Problem with the calendars. My bad." He indicated his hat. "We're here for Christmas."

"But—" Amy glanced at River, then back at the Doctor. "Why?"

"We were invited," River said. She pulled a very dusty green bottle from one of the shopping bags. "I did like you said." She raised an eyebrow at Rory. "This is the right year, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said. "Definitely."

She gave a happy little sigh. "Oh. Good."

Amy was looking at him, questioningly. "Rory...?

He glanced guiltily at the floor. "You've been so sad the last few weeks. I figured, well, Christmas, what with it being about family and since they _are_ family... I lied when I said I was having a gravestone made for my Uncle Martin. He's fine, though... Just a bit of rheuma—" The rest of his rambling explanation was kissed right out of him. Slightly dazed, Rory smiled back at his tearfully smiling wife. "Best present ever," she murmured and gave him another peck before going to hug the Doctor and practically smothering River.

"Sorry about your kitchen," the Doctor murmured as he surveyed the mess.

"No problem," Rory said, and clapped him on the shoulder. "You're cleaning it up."

It was a few hours later when they'd got everything back to rights. The small dining table that they'd bought for their old flat (so it was far too small for the dining room they had here... because they actually _had_ a dining room here...) was covered with serving platters, centred around a new turkey that the Doctor (possibly joking) said he'd prepared earlier. River and Amy were putting on the paper crowns from their crackers and laughing. Rory was ready with a pair of very large knives.

The Doctor was telling him about the planet River had found him on and some suspiciously Christmas-like holiday.

"Time to carve the turkey," Rory said, hoping the Doctor would stop talking. "Everyone sit down." He went to scratch his head, remembered that he was holding a knife, and ducked in surprise when Amy came at him with his very own paper crown.

"Knives, Amy," he said, horrified.

She rolled her eyes. "Shut up and let me fix your hat."

"Very big knives," he said, putting one down on the table.

Amy kissed him. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," he replied, staring for a moment, like he did every time he came to his senses and remembered, 'Oh my God, I'm _married_ to this woman.'

The Doctor brandished his sonic screwdriver. "Let me do the honours," he said. He peered at the side of the tool, bringing it all the way up to his nose, as if there was actually something there to read. Which there wasn't, Rory knew, because it had a telepathic interface.

"It's my house," Rory said, getting the knives in position. (He'd watched his dad do this every year since he'd been a little boy. He was reasonably sure he knew what he was doing.) "I carve the turkey. Because, I'm... you know... the man... of the house." He blushed under River and Amy's amused smirks. "That's how we always did it in my family."

"But I've got a turkey-carving setting! I've been dying to try it out." The Doctor looked entirely too excited.

Rory bit back a groan. "Try it out?" he repeated, hoping Amy or River would sense the same danger he did.

"This I've got to see!" River said, completely letting him down. But then again, she had always enjoyed herself the most when lives were at risk.

"Just don't take off any fingers, okay?" Amy said. She put a hand on Rory's shoulder as if to say, 'next year, man-of-the-house'.

"Don't worry, I've got this under control," the Doctor said. Rory held in another groan. The Doctor winked at him. "I call a leg."


End file.
